


Letters from the Porcupine

by Zaccari



Category: Kane (Band), Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaccari/pseuds/Zaccari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty years of letters from Christian and one from Jeff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters from the Porcupine

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I hate doing this, but I have to. I kill one (or two) of the main characters in this. Yes, it’s death fic, but that’s not the point of it, really. Trust me? Please?

April 22nd, 2009

I know you’re laughing right now, muttering something about not being able to believe I’m doing this. Well, how stupid do you think I feel? Sitting here on set writing a fucking letter – on the back of a script that we shot yesterday no fucking less.

I’d tell you to put it on Ebay, if you even know how to do that shit, but it was a scene between Aldis and Beth so it’s not like it’ll actually be worth anything. Now if it was me or my Oscar winning co-star…

You’re laughing again, aren’t you?

And just so you know, I told everybody I was writing Momma.

Now if I only had a fucking clue exactly what I was meant to be saying in this letter, we’d be getting somewhere.

Just fucking stop laughing already, will you?

Okay, I guess one of us has to be serious and I guess, right now, it has to be me.

Why, God, why?

Serious – it’s so fucking hard to be serious when I feel like a first class idiot and all I can hear is your laughing.

I just wish it was in my ear and not in my head.

Happy birthday, Jeff.

I couldn’t think of a damn thing to get you and writing a song sounded cheesy, stupid and too much like hard work. Then I remembered you telling me about your Grandmom’s letters and fool or not, here I am.

Maybe you should have told me what your Grandpop actually wrote to his bride into the bargain. I’m fairly sure he didn’t write fuck as much as I have.

Not that you’re my bride, because you’d looking fucking horrible in a dress with your legs, and white really isn’t your colour. And before you even think about it – No. I won’t wear one either, not even for you you kinky ass.

Fuck me, if I actually mail this thing, it’ll be a miracle.

I guess it’s kind of obvious by now that I really don’t know what I’m doing or saying, so I’m just gonna tell you I miss you and I wish weren’t spending your birthday with me in L.A. and you in Japan, but I’ll make it up to you.

I’ll make it up to both of us. And possibly buy you a real present like that twelve year old whiskey you swear is nectar from the gods just because it comes from Ireland. 

You’re deluded and unpatriotic, you do know that, right?

Christian

~*~

February 11th, 2010

I can’t believe it’s been twelve months since you asked me and Jensen out drinking – then told Jen you’d kill him if he actually turned up.

But what I really can’t fucking believe is that I’m doing this again. And what’s worse is I went out and bought fucking writing paper. You can live with the blue, Morgan, I don’t buy anything featuring butterflies for anybody, no matter how good they look in and out of their jeans.

So yeah, no script this time. The last episode we shot as an Eliott one and you’d learn how to use the whole Ebay thing just to fuck with me, I know you would.

Anyway, you’re out doing fuck knows what for tonight - which is meant to be a surprise because apparently I’ve supposed to have forgotten or not even remembered or some such shit – and I’m sitting here with your number one girl writing you another pitiful excuse for a letter.

I do have a real present for you this time, not it’s not whiskey or wee, but I found the last letter I wrote you for your birthday in your sock drawer.

Yes, I admit it, I sort your socks because if it was left to you, you’d think two black socks is near enough to good enough. Never mind that one has Spiderman on it and the other one is some fucked up argyle.

Never mind that I actually know what argyle is!

Anyway, I found the letter in the cigar box under your socks. Yes, I opened the box, I thought it was another sex toys stash, so I didn’t think you’d be all that unhappy if tried my hand at this again.

I’m still fucking horrid at it. I should get our script writers to work on the next one for me.

A year, Jeff, one whole year. Let me guess, Jen and Jared sent you a sympathy card, didn’t they?

I wish I had a shit load of pretty words for you. I wish I had a lot of things for you, even though you’d be the first to tell me you don’t need them. But this past year – I swear it’s been more than I deserve.

Fuck me, I can’t believe I just wrote that. And left it there.

Thank you, Jeff, for taking the chance when everybody you knew (and a few people you didn’t) told you I was too much asshole to be worth the effort.

Now, can you please get your ass home, please? Bisou doesn’t care about wine and roses, she just wants you.

I do too.

Oh yeah, one other thing. I love you.

Christian

~*~

November 23rd, 2010

I know how to start one this these – finally.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I hung up on you when I only called to apologise. I’m sorry we somehow ended up on this topic when we’re finally in the same country for once. I’m sorry for losing my temper and yelling loud enough for you to probably hear me even without the phone.

I don’t know, Jeff, I’m just fucking sorry. I make a living out of words, but sometimes I feel like I can never find the right ones with you.

So let me see if I can give it another shot, and maybe I can do it this time without the asshole element.

I never lied to you. I never said I didn’t want kids, what I do remember saying though is I want you. And it’s not fucking splitting hairs, Jeff, or whatever it was that you growled at me.

(Sometimes, I wish you’d yell like a normal person. I can deal with screaming. Your quiet, lethal, harsh breathing of words…that I can’t deal with)

I wouldn’t mind having kids, maybe, but if it comes down to a choice between what I have (or fucking hope I have) with you and some chick I may never meet and kids that’ll probably never be conceived – you win.

Why can’t you understand that? You’d win in pretty much any scenario I could be presented with.

And maybe I believe that if I was meant to get married and have six kids, God wouldn’t have given me you.

I’m still doing a fucking horrible job of explaining this. This is one letter I don’t think you’ll be wanting to put in your cigar box, darlin’.

I shouldn’t have lost it like I did, the first time, or the second, and I’ll fix the hole in the dry wall, I promise.

I’m sorry I scared Bisou.

But I don’t want to be pacing the halls of an apartment I don’t even know why I keep anymore (hell, even Momma calls your place when she wants to talk to me) when I could be where I need to be – with you.

Can I come home now? Please?

Christian

~*~

December 24th, 2012

Jeff?

Yes.

Always,

Christian

(And seriously, one fucking word about the My Little Pony stationary and I either kill you in your sleep, or you don’t get laid again until forever. This is what you get for asking me a question like this when we’re spending Christmas at my sister’s. At least there are no fucking butterflies)

~*~

June 3rd, 2014

You’re asleep beside me.

Finally.

Your face is pressed into my stomach because you fell asleep with your head in my lap. My ass is asleep and it’s almost impossible to write, but I don’t plan on moving anytime soon. 

And I don’t think I’ll be sleeping anytime soon either.

I’ve never seen anybody as broken hearted as you were today, and I’ve never felt so fucking useless as I was when I faced with a shattered you.

I’m a doer, I don’t do a lot of standing around talking about what I should/could/would do, I just prefer to be doing it. And right now there is no just doing it. This isn’t a fucking ad for stupid fucking shoes. 

I guess that’s part of why I am writing this down. I can’t find the words to tell you what I want to say, mostly because I really don’t think they’ve been thought up yet, but I’m hoping something magical will come out onto this sheet of paper. Something that’ll make the hurt bearable.

Yeah, there’s fuck all chance of that happening, but I’ve always been a dreamer, right? 

You and me, we decided more than a few years back kids just weren’t for us. We have more than our fair share of nephews and nieces and we’re pretty much all of their favourite uncles ever and weirdly that’s enough, for both of us. 

Besides, everybody knows you already had your baby, your girl, even before you had me. 

Bisou.

I’ve always wondered how long I would have lasted if she’d hated me, but she didn’t and I was more inclined to let her sleep on the end of the bed when the sex was done than you were.

There were a couple of nights she spent the entire time on the couch downstairs, much to her disgust. 

Just lately she’s been sleeping on our bed all the time, and last night she slept between us.

At least one of our little family got some sleep last night, because god knows neither you nor I did.

We both just laid there. You stroking Bisou over and over, careful to avoid anywhere you knew would make her hurt and me just resting one hand gently on your girl’s back, and the other constantly touching you, trying like fuck to give you in touch what I couldn’t give you any other way.

She’s not here tonight…and she won’t be here ever again. No more complaining about her being a bed hog, or her chewing on my favourite pair of boots.

No more just watching the two of you play and realising I’d never have to wonder how you’d be with kids of your own, because I already knew.

I also realised how moronic the words ‘at least you got to say goodbye’ are. Yes, we got that chance, knowing what had to be done today, but it didn’t make anything easier. Because we both knew when we left the vet’s today we’d be missing somebody that was a part of both us, and how the fuck can goodbye make that alright?

Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be leaving this letter anywhere you can find it any time soon, I think I’ll just tuck it into your cigar box. I don’t know how often you look in there, or if you look in there at all unless you’re putting another one of these stupid things in there.

So maybe you’ll find it, and maybe you won’t, but you don’t need it right now.

Because telling you I feel useless is as helpful as goodbye.

There’s no weight at the end of the bed, no quick clean up because Bisou’s scratching at the door waiting to be let in.

And I guess I’ll have to remember not to cook extra bacon tomorrow morning because there’ll be nobody hiding behind the island bench to eat it.

I miss her so much already, darlin’, I just can’t imagine what it’s like inside of your head.

You’re crying in your sleep now and my tears are falling into your hair.

I don’t think I can ever see you hurt like this again, Jeff, and I pray to God I never do.

Sleep, darlin’, sleep.

Your Christian

~*~

April 22nd, 2016

Happy birthday old man.

Now, can you please explain to me why we’re going out to the premier of Jen’s latest blood, guts and gore fest rather than staying home and proving exactly how old you aren’t?

And no, I am not writing you letter sex for your birthday. You’ve already got your present and it’s what you asked for.

I know we do phone sex, but phone sex won’t come back to haunt our great nieces and nephews fifty years from now. Besides these letters are supposed to show out undying devotion and love to each other.

I feel sugar sick just from writing that.

Personally I think all they show is I use the word ‘fuck’ way more than Momma would like and these letters are really an epic failure when it comes to me being able to show you everything you mean to me.

Which, for the record, is pretty much what you mean to me – Everything. My life is so tangled up in yours that I don’t think we could ever separate the vines without leaving weeping wounds in both our flesh.

And as sick as it might sound, that feels right. To be this tightly wound with you feels perfect.

Of course, I’m not saying either of us is perfect – I still leave wet towels on the bathroom floor and you still put the empty milk carton back in the fridge – but together? Together we’re pretty fucking good.

There could be good fucking tonight too, but somebody promised Jensen we’d be there at the red carpet with him.

Maybe your mind is going after all.

Do you know where I put my wedding ring?

Christian

~*~

June 27th, 2020

He’s beautiful, Jeff.

The most amazing birthday present I ever could have wished for.

He also doesn’t look like he’s big enough to be away from his momma, but that’ll change soon enough I guess if the way he ate his dinner tonight is any indication.

I really couldn’t believe it when you walked in with that basket this morning, but even when you did, I expected my present to meow instead of bark.

For a couple of years now Jared’s been suggesting (and you know how Jared *suggests* stuff) I should get you another puppy as a present, but I couldn’t do it. Not that I wouldn’t have loved one, I just didn’t want to be the one that decided it was okay all by myself and I could never bring myself to ask if you wanted to be doggy daddies again.

You bringing me that blue eyed ball of fluff kind of answered the question though.

There’s just one little thing – no, not the puppy – he might be my present, but I don’t want him to be mine, I want him to be ours.

So when you get back inside (hey, you volunteered to take him outside) and you’ve defrosted you ass and feet you can help me name him.

He looks kind of like a wolf pup, go figure, and he needs a name that fits with that.

Got any ideas?

Christian

~*~

January 1st, 2033

Twenty years, Jeff. Twenty fucking years. 

It feels like it’s been forever since I wrote you one of these (I guess I got better at talking, or you got better at hearing what I always meant to say but never got around to actually verbalising) but today warrants a letter don’t you think?

Twenty years ago today we managed to get both of our momma’s really, really, *really* angry at us. Christ, I thought they’d never stop yelling, but they did and then the disappointed silence made me wish they’d start yelling again.

We didn’t exactly think the whole getting married thing through, did we? Well, we did, kind of. You asked, I said yes, and we knew there’d be no church and minister, no hundreds of years old words so we just decided to do what we needed for us to make it real.

After that Christmas at Jen’s, we went out to my farm in Norman. It was our present to each other. Two weeks with no people, no phone, just you, me and Bisou.

It just seemed right for us, you know? We said what we wanted to say to each other, and the promises we made each other didn’t mean any less because our only witness was your dog. Honestly, it probably made them mean more.

I still don’t know how long you’d had the rings that suddenly appeared, but that’s one of those not important details. It was our wedding day and we made it mean everything it needed to.

Then we made the legendary mistake of telling the moms. 

See, they knew there’d be no fancy shit, mostly because they both know their sons, but they still thought they get something, I guess. I just always thought, wrongly by the way, so very wrongly, that it was only the daughter’s wedding that was this huge assed big deal. As it was very politely pointed out to both of us, they wanted to be there to just witness us making our commitment to each other, however we decided to do that.

Yeah, ummm, fucking oops.

We let them plan the party from hell – which they probably went overboard with as punishment though neither would admit that – and we said more words in front of pretty much everybody we’d ever known, but I think our parents always knew they weren’t the same words we’d said that night in Norman.

Those words have never belonged to anybody but you and me and that is something I treasure beyond everything else.

I promised to love you until I couldn’t find another drop of love within me. I promised to stay with you until time ceased to exist. I promised that you were my only.

I mean all of those words more today than I did back then and I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. 

I promised to try and remember to pick up my towels, but I think you always knew that would the only vow I’d ever break.

Jeffrey Dean, I promise to love you until I can’t remember how not to love you, I promise to be with you past time’s end.

There is no other, there never has been.

I’ll work on the towel thing.

Forever.

Christian

~*~

September 14th, 2038

I hate so fucking much right now. And I can pretty much sum it up with I hate my fucking body.

The muscle mass I’ve always had – hey, I was a well built, good looking sixty something year old – is just gone. It’s melted away like snow shipped into L.A. by this week’s favourite poptart starlet. We won’t even talk about the lack of any ability to get an erection, will we? Because it’s not like we could do anything with it, we’ve been warned against anything and everything that might introduce an infection into my fucked up body.

I don’t care what the numbers say, neither of us are this fucking old.

Even if the cancer disagrees with me.

You know what I hate the most though? The fact I’m fucking bald. Yes, I kept my hair too long for a man my age (just ask Entertainment Tonight or whatever they call that show this week), but it stayed that length because I loved to feel you playing in it.

There’s no hair now, on my head or any other part of my body, and I feel like Christian Kane’s fucking shadow.

I curse too much for a man my age as well.

I’m so tired. You’re out getting ice cream though, like you’ve got a pregnant wife, not a dying husband, but calories are calories and if I don’t eat we’re not getting rid of that whole dying part in the husband description, right?

Right.

Yeah, this is one more little letter I’ll be putting straight into your box. You don’t need this right now, not when you won’t cry in front of me because you’re afraid I’ll give up, or I’ll think you have.

Jeff, darlin’, you’re the last person that would ever give up, don’t you think I don’t know by now?

Kai’s barking at nonexistent somethings again. I wonder what that old wolf pup sees?

I’m just going to sleep a bit, okay? You’ll be back soon, and I’m going to eat that ice cream if it kills me.

Yeah, bad taste, I know.

Just a nap, wake me when you get back, Jeff.

Oh yeah, you’re not gonna see this, are you?

Just a nap.

Christian

~*~

September, 2038

I debated with myself for months who to leave this with, or whether I should leave it at all.

Jensen, Steve, Jared, Brandon.

But I guess right now it doesn’t matter who delivered it, does it darlin’? Because the mere fact that somebody else gave it to you means I’m gone.

This is so fucking morbid, writing something that will be given to you after I’ve died, especially when I spend every day telling both of us that I’m going to be okay, that we’ll beat this black shit inside of me.

I’m not gonna beat it, Jeff, I know that now. I’m still gonna fight it, for as long as I can, because I want every fucking second I can get with you, but I know it’s going to win.

I’m sorry, darlin’, so sorry. I know it’s not my fault, but it still feels like I’m leaving you when I promised I wouldn’t.

Yeah, not dwelling on that, it’s irrelevant to everything right now. I’m writing this for one reason and one reason only.

I can’t go anywhere without telling you one last time I love you. Forever, for always.

God, Jeff, don’t forget that. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

I love you.

You gave me everything and if I gave you half as much back then that’s my reason for being here. Not the music, not the movies, TV, whatever, you.

You are my reason.

Now you’ve got to let me be your reason. I know you, you’re going to need some motivation to get out bed so you get off your ass for me. Those scripts that want the new Sean Connery and you were turning down because of me – take them. 

Do it all for me, darlin’, do it for us, but do it for you too.

Do it for Kai too. He’s old, but you’ll keep each other walking.

Jeffrey Dean, my time has ended, but I still love you and I’m always right there.

Always, forever, and when your time comes, I’ll be waiting.

Christian

~*~

September 17th, 2038

I never wrote you one of these before, did I, Christian? And now here I am, writing one I’ll put in your coffin today before your funeral.

I should have done it before now. You deserved it before now.

I found the letter you wrote when we had to put Bisou to sleep today. You said you’d never seen a man so heartbroken, then I’m so glad you can’t see me today. Brandon, he’s coming to pick me up soon, but I told him to just leave me be this morning. I need to say my goodbyes this morning, alone, to just you and nobody else, so when I go out in front of all those fucking cameras this afternoon I can at least get through it with what’s left of my dignity intact.

The public gets so much of me, they got so much of both us given our chosen jobs, but they just can’t have this.

So I pulled out that cigar box and I re-read every letter, every word in that chicken scratch writing I’m fairly sure the military could have used as an unbreakable code.

God, I love those letters, sweetheart. I know I didn’t mention them all that much, but that was only because I was afraid if I did you’d stop writing them.

But as much as I loved those letters, I loved you more and I just don’t fucking know how I’m meant to do this without you now.

Twenty-six years, Christian, it’s not enough. I wanted more, I still want more.

Fuck, I’m sitting here, writing, crying, thinking I should say something incredibly wise and serene and all I can do is jump from topic to topic, writing about a letter you wrote years ago, thinking about everything I should have told you, wondering if you knew everything I thought you did.

And getting really fucking angry with you that you said your goodbye but couldn’t wait until I got home from the market with fucking ice cream that I know neither of us would have eaten.

You left me Christian, you fucking left! And while I never thought about how this would end, I never thought I’d be the one left here either. I’m older, I knew you’d never leave me, I’m not meant to be here alone.

But I’d never want you to feel like this either…I couldn’t survive the thought of you feeling like this.

I don’t know what I’m going to do from here on out, sweetheart. I know that tomorrow, you and me, we’re taking a plane ride to Norman and…and I’m going to be leaving you there. You never mentioned where you wanted you ashes spread, but it’s your home, no matter where we lived, that was your home, it’s where we started our life together and when it’s my time, I’ll be back there with you again. 

I’m not sure I can take those movie roles, I’m not sure I can accept the dinner invitation I know Jared will make today even though Jensen will have told him it’s too soon.

But I’ll keep moving, and I’ll get out of bed.

I’ll walk with Kai.

To this day I can’t believe you named him after a coyote. You were right you know, I picked him because he looked so much like a wolf with his markings, and he looked nothing like my girl, I need that too.

He’s been walking around looking for you today. Even though he stood guard beside your…beside you while I held you and I had to put him outside when they…well, you know. 

Kai watched all of that and he’s still walking around asking one daddy where his other daddy is.

I’m taking him with me today. He should be there, and I’ll need him there.

I know you’re with your Daddy now, and Bisou, and that helps, but just…just not enough, you know?

I just really don’t know what happens next. Other than I guess I get dressed.

You once asked me if I’d seen your wedding ring, right after you accused me of being senile, but just in case you’re looking for it, I have it.

I’m keeping it safe until I can give it to you again.

My time hasn’t ended yet, Christian, so you still have to love me.

Wait for me?

Kai’s barking at those nothings again, but I think I know what he’s seeing now.

You.

I love you.

Now how about you give me the strength to get my arthritic ass off of the floor?

Jeff.

**Author's Note:**

> beta'ed by meredevachon, but that being said all remaining mistakes are so my fault.
> 
> The title is lovingly, and with much respect, stolen from a Blind Melon song. I love the story behind the song more than I love the song, and I could ramble about said story but I’ll spare you.
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned them I'd be on an island watching them feed each other grapes. Seriously, not mine. I do actually know this. And my sick brain made this all up, I know that as well.


End file.
